


Proof

by kaiz



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: D/s, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-07-22
Updated: 1999-07-22
Packaged: 2017-10-09 18:19:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/90204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaiz/pseuds/kaiz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joe is convinced that Duncan and Methos are a couple. All he needs is a little proof. What he gets defines the term 'too much information'. Can you say 'kinkfic'? I knew you could!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Proof

They must think I'm an idiot. Or perhaps just blind. I'm a Watcher, for chrissake. I watch, observe.

Did they really think I wouldn't notice? Their smoldering, then quickly averted glances. The discreet and lingering touches of sword-callused fingers over a shared glass of wine or bottle of beer. Their hastily, yet smoothly aborted automatic affectionate gestures. The way their bodies respond to one another, like the subtle response of a plant to sunlight, while listening to the blues from the front-row table I always reserve for them.

Believe me, I noticed.

I noticed the deeply pleased warmth in their voices when they met after long absence and their sappy, lopsided half-smiles upon sharing a private joke. The wistful longing and intensely contained worry when they were separated either by design or fate. Not to mention the rather obvious fact that Amanda no longer stays at the loft or the barge when she, Mac and 'Adam Pierson' are in town simultaneously.

I'm a Watcher. Of *course* I noticed.

I will admit to a bit of surprise when it comes to Mac. The notion of one of the Immortal world's most famous, lusty lovers of women being sexually involved with a man *is* somewhat surprising. If Mac has ever had male lovers, those exploits certainly never made it into print. Though I'll be the first to admit that an Immortal's Chronicles rarely tell the full tale.

As for Methos, after over five thousand years, I'd assumed that there was very little - if anything - that he hasn't experienced in the realm of human relationships, sexual or otherwise. Not to mention that same-sex partnerships were common, if not the norm, in many of the cultures in which he's lived. Certainly there was more than simple friendship, more than student-teacher concern, in his relationship with Byron.

And, while I'm being so honest, what the heck, I'll also admit a prurient curiosity about Methos and Kronos. They rode together for nearly a thousand years. What unfathomably deep, complex bonds were forged between them during those centuries? The rare times Methos has spoken of Kronos to me, his voice alternately harsh and bleak, his stark words conjured provocative images. Especially given the twisted themes of domination, cruelty and deviant sensuality woven through 'Melvin Koren's' Chronicle.

Regardless, I can certainly understand the attraction, the fascination that Mac holds for Methos. The Old Man isn't the first - male or female, mortal or Immortal - to fall for the charismatic, intensely handsome Highlander, the bright, passionate flame that is Duncan MacLeod.

I clearly recall one evening at the bar, several hours past closing, after a bottle of vodka, after Bordeaux, as a drunken and distraught Methos compared MacLeod to Kronos. Mac would likely have been appalled, but to me at least, the similarities were obvious. Nearly four thousand years ago, Kronos' dark charisma had drawn Methos out of centuries of seclusion and anonymity into a whirlwind of death, power and passion. And only a few years ago, MacLeod pulled him from a similar self-imposed exile. Given the staggering magnitude of Kronos' accomplishments with Methos at his side, I can only wonder what shape the world, the Game, might take with MacLeod and Methos now allied.

As for what attracts MacLeod to Methos...Adam Pierson's shy, self-effacing manner could certainly be considered charming, innocently seductive. But Methos? Enigmatic, cynical, sarcastic, infuriating, ancient beyond belief, wearing the boyishly clean, spare features of a Classical sculpture. Who the hell knows? Love is, after all, blind.

Because I've Watched MacLeod for so many years, I can usually tell when he's fallen in love. And he *is* in love, make no mistake. The mood swings - from euphoric to brooding in the space of a heart beat. The extravagant, playful, solicitous and affectionate body language. Even at his most devious and secretive, Mac is still an astonishingly straightforward, honest man, wearing his emotions, his heart openly.

Methos, of course, is a much more difficult read. His masks have been perfected over millennia. When in love, Adam Pierson is all shy worry and sincere, heartfelt persistence. With Methos, his actions, so very at odds with his stated philosophy of non-involvement, are most telling. His continued presence in Mac's life, his otherwise inexplicable willingness to place himself between MacLeod and danger, again and again: Kalas, the Dark Quickening, Stephen Keane, the return of Methos' dark brethren, the Horsemen. Methos' involvement, at considerable risk to his anonymity, not to mention his head, speaks eloquently about his true motivations regarding Duncan MacLeod.

So, they are in love, are lovers. That much is clear, if I carefully read between the lines. However, it's only obvious because I know them each very well. Without my 'inside information', I might have missed the signs. And that, of course, is the root of my problem. Nothing they've actually said or done in my presence can be taken as conclusive proof of their new relationship. And oddly enough, for some reason, I'm uncharacteristically hesitant to ask outright. I certainly can't put my suspicions about something this important, no matter how well-founded, into MacLeod's Chronicle.

As a Watcher, I carefully walk the line between friend and historian, participant and voyeur in their private lives. Do they believe that I am unable to make the distinction in this particular case? That I might judge their relationship in some way? That notion stings. Methos, if anyone, should know me better than that. I'd certainly stood by him, defended him to Mac, when his past resurfaced to bite him in the ass.

They'd explained away their frequent proximity with a carefully staged fatal mugging outside a Geneva night-club in the presence of Amanda's Watcher. 'Adam Pierson' rose from the dead as an Immortal and Duncan MacLeod's newest student. Neat, simple, conclusive and an incredible source of ironic amusement from the world's oldest living man.

But why haven't they explained to me the *real* reason they've been nearly joined at the hip for the past year? Why have they kept me guessing? Is this some new game of Methos'? They haven't even given me an indication that they know I suspect, although I've caught an occasional mysterious look from the Old Man. Very odd. And very, very frustrating.

Proof. Conclusive, incontrovertible proof is what I need. Some action or comment that simply *can't* be interpreted any other way than the 'obvious'. I suppose if I wait long enougb, they'll slip up eventually. The love they share, the carefully contained passion and lust that I see flare between them when they think I'm not looking, can't be hidden indefinitely.

So I'll wait. And Watch.

*

I wasn't faking the mellow buzz generated by numerous shots of Mac's well-aged whiskey. However, from all appearances, sprawled as I was across one of his new sofas, I probably looked three sheets to the wind and one very short step from passing out. Although they can both out-drink me - hell, *their* livers can regenerate - I'm not *that* cheap a date.

On his way to the bar late this evening, Methos had been challenged. A head-hunter, aware of Adam Pierson's former work with the Watchers, had demanded information - at sword point - about the Methos Chronicles. Coincidentally, he was also an old enemy of Mac's. Seems he figured he could track down Methos' whereabouts, collect an easy head - Adam's - *and* deliver a 'message' to MacLeod by killing his student.

Big mistake.

The Old Man had staggered in just after closing, face grim and set. With his overcoat soaked from the incessant Seacouver rain, clothing torn and blood-stained, he bore a striking resemblance to a large, bedraggled crow at the tail end of winter.

Mac was out of his seat in an instant, hand under Methos' arm, ushering him towards a table. Several bottles of beer later, Methos had relaxed enough for us to pry the story out of him. A few more bottles and we were able to pour him into Mac's car for the trip over rain-slicked streets back to the loft. I ignored Mac's pointed look and tagged along anyway, under the guise of concern for the Old Man.

From Methos' terse description of the battle, I knew I'd be hearing MacLeod's praises sung once again from Adam's Watcher during my next visit to Headquarters: "Adam was marvelous, Joe! You should have *seen* it! I figured that Adam stood no chance! MacLeod must be an incredible teacher to train a new Immortal so quickly!" Yet another source of irony for 'humble' researcher-turned-Immortal Adam Pierson.

I guess that's what I get for assigning my daughter as Methos' Watcher.

Our impromptu party finally got going after MacLeod overcame his initial irritation about Methos taking one of 'his' challenges: "Stop fighting my battles, Old Man!" Never mind the fact that the idiot challenged Adam. Eventually, boisterous and increasingly outrageous toasts and tales mostly drowned out the sound of wind-lashed rain against the windows and the occasional roll of thunder.

MacLeod alternately paced, slammed shots and tried to keep his hands off Methos. In turn, Methos, who was draped bonelessly over the adjacent couch, ferally watched the Highlander, occasionally licking his lips and adjusting his trousers. From all appearances, the rumors about Quickenings and heightened sex-drive seemed to be true.

So, I figured that if I hung around long enough, they both might get fed up enough to say or do something unambiguous enough for me to interrogate them about. And believe you me, when that happened, I was gonna pin both of them to the wall for every sordid detail. I figured they owed me as much for keeping me guessing these past few months.

After a second bottle of whiskey was opened and at least another hour passed with no results, I decided I'd better change tactics. And so, in the midst of one of Mac's colorful - and drunken - tales of glory days past, I 'passed out'. Already fairly relaxed, it was a simple matter to let my eyes slide shut and my head fall back against the cushions. At least MacLeod has a generously padded sofa. Unlike Methos and the high-tech, chrome and leather torture devices he calls furniture. It wouldn't surprise me to discover he keeps whips and chains lying around the place, too.

Eyes closed, trying to stay alert, I listened as their banter wound down to a single question.

"Isn't that right, Joe?"

Silence. Of course.

"Joe?" Duncan called, his speech slightly slurred. "Dawson? Wake up!"

Someone poked me. I played possum furiously. The other couch squeaked as Methos unfolded from his sprawl and stalked towards me. His long, bony fingers wrapped around my biceps and he shook me hard.

"C'mon Dawson! Get up, you bloody lump. We'll call you a cab!"

There was a long pause as I struggled not to give away the game and as Mac and Methos presumably tried to decide what to do.

"Shit." MacLeod? Cursing? I didn't know he knew how.

"Indeed." Methos voice was wry and annoyed. "Bloody bastard."

Takes one to know one, you old fart.

I could feel the two of them hovering over me, staring, willing me to open my eyes. Sorry guys, not *this* time.

MacLeod shook me - damn he's got a helluva grip - and nearly shouted in my face, voice distorted with irritation. "Dammit, Dawson! Get up! Yew're no' gonna ruin my evenin'!" Ah, the brogue emerges! He must be pissed. It took all my will-power not to laugh. I love him dearly, but Mac is nothing if not a drama queen.

"Calm down, MacLeod," Methos said reasonably. "You'll get nowhere by shouting at - the furniture." I could easily visualize the sarcastic curl of his lip. "It's late. Let's get ready for bed and we'll come back and see if Dawson is conscious." Something in Methos' voice, perhaps it was the sudden shift from annoyed to conciliatory, made me instantly alert. Made me wonder if my ruse was as successful as I'd hoped.

Mac grumbled but allowed himself to be led off towards the bathroom. After their footfalls had faded, I slowly opened my eyes, looked around and got a bit more comfortable. The bathroom door closed with a quiet *snick* and the shower was turned on. So. They'd decided to share the bathroom. *Almost* enough evidence to corner them with when they got out. I sighed deeply and stretched. Seemed as if I'd have to wait a bit longer for my scheme to pan out.

*

Shit!

I pushed the blanket from my shoulders and silently cursed myself. Goddammit, I fell asleep! I can't believe that I fell *asleep*! Some Watcher *I* am. I must have been more tired - admit it Dawson, more *drunk* - than I thought. As I shifted, my back twinged and my thighs were sore where buckles and straps had pressed. Damn! I hadn't planned to spend the entire night here! Mac's couch isn't *that* comfortable!

After a few moments of silent grumbling, I realized that something had awakened me from my unwanted snooze. Listening intently, I heard the refrigerator open and close, then the *crack* and clatter as a beer bottle was opened and the cap bounced off the wall, landing behind the refrigerator. Methos. Only *he* would drink beer in the middle of the night after downing whiskey all evening. A lusty burp followed sounds of enthusiastic beer quaffing and then Methos padded quietly into the living room.

"Jesus, Methos!" Mac whispered fiercely. "D'ya think they heard that belch in Paris?"

The foot steps paused beside the couch and my arm was poked. I lay still, trying to breathe naturally.

"Relax, MacLeod. The furniture is still asleep."

You moldy old bastard! See if I float your damn bar tab anymore!

Methos' footfalls sauntered towards the bed and then stopped.

"So, Methos." Bedclothes rustled quietly and the bed springs squeaked. "S'that for me?" The lush, throaty quality of Mac's query startled me.

"Come here and find out, Highlander." I shivered at the dark half-smile and the challenge in Methos' voice.

The bed, and then the floor, creaked. There was a short pause and then the quiet slither of skin against soft skin broke the silence. A breathless exclamation was followed by a faint moan.

Be careful what you wish for, Dawson!

I'd wanted proof. Well, ask and ye shall receive!

I really should keep my eyes closed, pretend to sleep. Whatever they were doing, was *private*. But I was intrigued in spite of myself, unable to lie still and not *know* while this - whatever the hell *this* was - went on not fifteen feet away. And so, I rolled very slowly to my side and partially opened my eyes.

The storm had blown itself out and brilliant moonlight streamed through the windows upon an erotic tableau that stole my breath. At the foot of the rumpled bed, Mac and Methos stood entwined, their nude bodies washed pale by the waxing moon.

Now, I'm a worldly guy, been around 'the block' a few times. I've been a soldier, traveled the world, know a bit about history and culture and have sown more than my fair share of some pretty wild oats. Hell, I'm a musician and I own a bar; those facts should speak for themselves. I'm also well acquainted, via the Chronicles, with centuries worth of tales of Immortal hedonism.

However, despite all I've seen, done and read about, I freely admit that I've never watched two guys have sex, live or on film. Hell, I've never really even seen another erect cock except my own. Locker rooms not withstanding.

It's not that I have anything against two guys screwing each other. Or that Mac and Methos aren't aesthetically pleasing examples of athletic - and, at the moment, rampant - manhood. But, Christ Almighty! Couldn't I have passed out on the couch one night when Mac was screwing Amanda? All I'd wanted to witness was a more-than-brothers hug or maybe a kiss. Watching Mac pound Methos' bony ass into the mattress - well, that was an image I could probably live without.

Right?

I should just close my eyes and pretend that I really *was* asleep. There *is* such thing as 'too much information' - even for a Watcher.

Isn't there?

Unfortunately, the sounds - Methos' sensual chuckles and Mac's breathless sighs, deep, wet kisses and the glide of two pairs of hands over olive and ivory skin - painted pictures behind my eye-lids every bit as provocative as the live floor show.

So, maybe I *should* watch. Witness the 'real thing'. After all, I'd be broadening my horizons a bit. Overcoming a bit of squeamishness. Learning something new. I could indulge in a bit of harmless voyeurism without my friends being the wiser. I'd gain some insight, maybe learn something useful that'd help me understand their relationship's complex power dynamics, make sense of MacLeod's crazed mood-swings and Methos' infuriatingly enigmatic smiles. It wasn't as if I'd record these particular acts in Mac's Chronicle, after all - although they'd damn sure go into my private journal.

Yes indeed, watching could be very educational. Made a lot of sense.

That settled, I opened my eyes again and readied myself to observe.

*

At the foot of the rumpled bed, they stood passionately entwined, nude bodies washed pale by the waxing moon. Methos released the silver clasp that bound Mac's hair and casually tossed it aside. It traced a glittering arc to the hardwood floor then skittered away under the sofa.

I've watched MacLeod work out half-clad numerous times: katas, sparring, boxing, running. His superb physical condition, sculpted muscles limned by moonlight, was impressive, but no longer surprising. Methos, however, stunned me. His generally thinner build, coupled with baggy sweaters, overcoats and slumped shoulders had always lent him an aura of fragility, of teen-aged awkwardness. Completely harmless. Camouflage and misdirection, entirely. Shy, bookish scholar be damned! Naked, he was as perfectly crafted as any Roman sculpture, with a cobra's ruthless, deadly grace. Long, lean, strongly muscled limbs, with nary a spare ounce of fat spoke eloquently of millennia of survival at swordpoint.

I would never underestimate this man again.

"You've wanted this all evening, haven't you, Duncan?" Methos asked lazily, voice intense, heated and seductive. Humming quietly, he buried long fingers in Mac's hair and bent to lick a glistening trail from Mac's collarbone to his bristled jaw.

The rare use of his given name triggered a fascinating response in the Highlander. His knees seemed to weaken and he sagged in Methos' embrace, large hands clutching his lover's pale, broad shoulders. Methos upheld him easily.

"Yes." Mac's hoarse whisper was in startling contrast to Methos' smugly satisfied hum. Tilting his head to the side, he allowed his lover greater access to the strong column of his throat.

As Methos hands pushed the long hair aside, I realized with a jolt that Mac's throat was banded by a dark collar.

Christ!

Slow minutes passed as Methos' mobile tongue sought and found tiny patches of skin on Mac's shoulders and throat, dragging forth ragged moans and sighs. Mac's involuntary sounds grew in intensity when he licked, then gnawed delicately around the edge of the thick, dark leather of the collar.

"You love it when I take you."

*Take* him? What the hell?

"Oh *yes*," Mac agreed breathlessly. "But, Methos - we shouldn't. We'll wake Joe."

"MacLeod!" Methos' voice, now muffled by mouthful of Mac's shoulder, was rough with exasperation and passion. "Quit worrying. He's *asleep*!"

God! If only they knew!

"Besides," Methos continued, darkly suggestive, "I can always gag you."

What?!

"But -" Mac's protest was stolen as Methos lifted his head and seized his lover's mouth in a hard, demanding kiss. Surprisingly passive, Mac simply held on weakly, while Methos thoroughly plundered his mouth and possessively roamed his body with strong, pale fingers. Methos appeared to be trying his best to devour MacLeod alive.

Amidst Methos' throaty growls, Mac's breathless plea nearly went unheard. "Methos? Now? *Please*?" Wrapping his arms around Methos' waist, Mac ground their hips together, groaning desperately.

"Patience, Duncan," Methos said calmly, pulling back from a final hot, leisurely kiss. "Patience."

"But, I want -"

"Shh," he whispered, lips moving lovingly across Mac's forehead and brow. "I know what you want." His tongue slipped around the curl of his lover's ear. "And you'll have it all. In time." A brief brush of lips against eyelids and cheeks. "Close your eyes."

Without hesitation, Mac's eyes slid shut. Right hand still tangled in his lover's hair, Methos lifted Mac's chin with his left and slowly traced the full wet lips with a thumb.

"Now, open for me."

Mac complied, his seeking tongue slowly curling around Methos' thumb.

"Very nice, Duncan," Methos praised softly, eliciting a faint moan from Mac. His satisfied smile flashed as he withdrew the thumb and leaned forward to place a gentle kiss on his partner's softened lips.

"And *now*, may I, Methos?" The wistful smile on Mac's face and Methos' answering grin were fascinating if rather puzzling. To me, at least.

"Oh yes, you certainly may." Fond amusement rumbled in his chest.

Sighing quietly, Mac ran his broad hands along Methos' chest, pausing to gently pinch nipples, tease ribs and his lover's flat, rippled belly. Methos squirmed a bit, then laughed. His chuckle became a heartfelt groan of anticipation as Mac's fingertips trailed along his hips, down his thighs to his ankles and Mac slid gracefully to his knees.

Stunned, I watched the scene unfold before me. Publicly, MacLeod was always the aggressor, the leader, passion and will personified. Methos, in contrast, was more passive, willing to follow rather than lead, to yield rather than to forcibly insist. Seeing Mac kneel, openly submissive at Methos' feet, bathed in the bright moonlight spilling across the floor, radically reordered my mental image of them both. Made me wonder about the other men and women, who might have knelt, similarly naked and trembling, before this man who once was Death. Gave me cause to remember and ponder the multi-level significance, the far-reaching implications of Methos' final words to Morgan Walker, "Just because I don't like to fight, doesn't mean I can't."

My eyes grew wide and my jaw gaped as Mac lowered his eyes and crossed his wrists behind him. Bending forward, he gracefully placed a single kiss on each of Methos' elegant feet, upon both ankles and knees and finally left a trail of delicate kisses and nibbles up the inside of each strong, lean thigh. Sitting back on his heels, he paused as Methos parted his legs, widening his stance.

And, with his hand tangled in Mac's hair, wearing a sensual smile, Methos carefully guided his lover's wet, open mouth to his waiting cock. He threw back his head with a gasp of obvious delight as Mac sucked the not inconsiderable length down his throat.

"Mmmm. Lovely, Duncan, lovely," Methos encouraged softly, thrusting himself into his lover's mouth, both hands now wrapped in the long, dark silk of Mac's hair. "*Exactly* like that!" Mac rocked on his widely spread knees, powerful thigh muscles and shoulders bunching, as he sought to maintain his balance and bring Methos to climax without the use of his hands. His own cock was swollen and glistened slickly in the moonlight.

My mouth grew dry. If I'd been asked before, I would have said that I might find watching two men make love to be of academic interest only. A curiosity, something about which I could later casually shrug and say, "Been there, done that." I was shocked to find myself so affected by the vision of Mac's willing submission, Methos' arrogant, effortless dominance, the deep wet sounds of sucking and licking, Methos' growls of pleasure. I was also astounded to find myself hard enough to pound nails and nearly ready to hump the damn couch.

"I love your mouth!" Methos threw back his head, fisted his hands in Mac's hair and slammed himself into his lover's mouth repeatedly. "I *love* to fuck your mouth!"

Mac appeared to have abandoned himself completely now, no more than a willing receptacle for his lover's passion. Sweat sheened their skin and Mac's moans were frantic, deeply nasal, his mouth thoroughly filled, plugged by his lover's meaty cock. His own erection, red, turgid and wet, must have been painful.

After long minutes, Methos' quick, rhythmic motions stilled suddenly and he exhaled on a long, heavy sigh. Mac's throat worked furiously as he sought to swallow his lover's orgasm. Methos' death grip on Mac's hair eased and he hummed appreciatively as Mac continued to lick his softening cock, lap at his balls and inner thighs.

Sweat beaded my own forehead and dripped into my eyes just from witnessing the intensity of their performance.

"Did I please you?" Mac finally asked, not raising his eyes. His face was turned towards me, eyes closed, cheek rubbing slowly against Methos' thigh.

"Oh yes, Duncan. You pleased me very much." Methos grasped his lover's chin and tilted his head, sparkling hazel eyes meeting chocolate brown. He gently touched the swollen lips with a forefinger. "Now, go get your things."

Methos sat on the foot of the bed and watched as Duncan went to a small clothes press beneath the window and returned carrying a large cloth bag. Placing it in his lover's hands, Duncan again went to his knees, his back to me, wrists crossed at the base of his spine and forehead pressed to the floor.

I nearly gasped aloud and bit down hard on the corner of the couch cushion to keep silent.

Seemingly indifferent to the stunning sight before him, Methos rummaged in the bag and withdrew a few objects. Holding something glittering in his hand, Methos finally looked down at his kneeling lover, his smile darkly proprietary.

Crouching at Mac's side, he ran a finger along his lover's spine and arranged the long hair over his shoulders. A visible shudder shook Mac's frame. "Oh Duncan," he breathed softly, "how very delicious you look."

Mac was silent but his trembling intensified.

"Did you prepare yourself for me?" he asked, clearly not expecting an answer.

Prepare?

Methos ran his fingers across Mac's palms and then dipped into the shadowy cleft between his ass cheeks.

Holy shit!

Mac whimpered and pressed his forehead harder to the floor.

"Oh *yes*. You did. Very good." Methos chuckled and withdrew the fingers swiftly. Mac shuddered delicately. "Patience, Duncan. Or do you need a ring?"

A *cock* ring? Oh. My. God.

"No, Methos." Mac's whisper was tortured. "I'm fine."

Methos nodded approvingly and slapped Mac's ass sharply. "I'd paddle that lovely ass of yours right now if I didn't think your wailing would awaken Joseph."

My overactive imagination immediately conjured the image of proud Duncan MacLeod turned over Methos' knee, walloped by the firm, uncompromising hand of Death. I nearly cheered, God help me!

Smiling, Methos reclaimed his seat on the bed.

"Kneel up." The casually spoken phrase was clearly a command.

Swiftly, Mac lifted his forehead and sat back on his heels facing Methos. The couch springs squeaked faintly as I shifted uncomfortably. I froze, heart pounding: for an instant, it seemed as if Methos looked directly at me over the top of MacLeod's head.

"Methos?" Mac queried anxiously, shoulders tensing, seeming to sense his lover's sudden unease.

"Relax, Duncan." Methos smiled fondly and his lover settled. His mouth quirked briefly, as if he were secretly amused, then he jangled some bits of bright metal in his hand. I heard two quiet *snicks* and then Mac gasped sharply. I thought furiously for a moment then blinked.

Nipple clamps! I'd been kidding about the whips and chains. Honestly!

A sharp tug from Methos' finger, and Mac groaned loudly. Abruptly, Methos commanded, "Stand."

Muscles quivering, Duncan rose gracefully to his feet. Head bowed, wrists still crossed behind his back, he stood just slightly to the right of Methos, not quite in profile to me.

"Legs apart," Methos snapped almost indifferently.

Mac stepped his feet apart, sculpted thigh muscles gleaming, dark hair streaming across his broad shoulders.

Reaching into the bag once again, Methos withdrew a large bottle. A *snap* and it was opened, a generous amount of the contents spilled into Methos' hand. The scent of sandalwood and myrrh mingled with their frenzied musk already perfuming the air.

"Ah! Is that *all* for me?" Methos chuckled, mimicking Mac's earlier words. Leaning forward slightly, he grasped Mac's erection and slicked it thickly with the oil. Mac groaned and rose to the balls of his feet, fists clenched, obviously struggling not to explode all over Methos' hands. I could sympathize. *Christ*, it had been so *long* since I'd gotten laid. After this display, I'd have to spank the monkey for hours to stave off a month of wet dreams. As it was, I'd likely have to face them both with cold, sticky trousers over breakfast in the morning.

"And you shaved for me, too!" Methos said, pleasure and humor coloring his tone as he rubbed the fragrant oil over Mac's aroused genitals. "Smooth. Perfect."

Shaved? Sweet Mother of God!

"You're a very attentive student, Duncan MacLeod," he praised softly, massaging carefully, thoroughly. "You've properly prepared yourself, shaved and kept yourself hard and ready for my pleasure." Mac threw back his head and moaned loud and low. "Very attentive, indeed."

Completing his ministrations, Methos leaned back on his elbows and gazed up at his lover's face, lips quirked. "Would you like your reward now?"

"Yes, Methos. Please." Mac's voice was ragged.

"Very well." He waved his hand negligently. "Face up on the bed."

Mac moved silently to the bed and lay face-up in the center. It was shocking to see a man so large move so quickly. Methos touched his lips with a finger tip, stared blankly in my direction and then smiled.

Rising, Methos rounded the bed and stood at the headboard looking down at MacLeod. Laughing openly, Methos leaned one knee on the bed and slowly fondling his renewed erection.

The angle of the couch and the patchwork pattern of moonlight through the loft, made it somewhat difficult to see clearly. But, shifting slowly to my stomach - wincing as my cock pressed into the cushions - I could easily see Mac. He lay flat on his back, arms to his sides, cock rising from his shaved pubis like a tent pole. Watching Methos slowly masturbate, he whimpered.

"Hands over your head."

Mac raised his hands and Methos bound them both with dark leather cuffs from the bedside drawer, securing them to the bedframe over Mac's head.

"Legs apart."

Walking to the foot of the bed, a set of ankle restraints in his hands, Methos strapped both ankles to previously-hidden chains that ran through the bed-frame.

"Comfortable?"

"Yes." Mac's voice was very strained.

With MacLeod lying so bound, spread eagled against the dark satin sheets, painted by the slowly shifting moonlight, I was provided with a far more intimate view of my Immortal than I'd certainly ever imagined. A goddamn proctologist's eye-view to be exact. How the hell was I *ever* going to look at him, *either* of them, again without constantly seeing *this* - this wanton display of willing and shameless submission and domination - replayed in my mind?

Maybe watching hadn't been such a good idea after all!

Methos reached for the toy bag lying between Mac's spread legs and removed a dark, slender object. "We'll just use this to hold my place while I dispense your treat." He smiled to himself and drizzled oil over the object.

Their bed was going to be a complete mess come morning.

Mac lifted his head, stared at the object and groaned desperately, "Oh *god* Methos, no! I can't take that now!"

"Shh. Yes you can," Methos murmured softly. "Close your eyes and take a deep breath. Relax." His hands rubbed a soothing pattern over his lover's stomach. "Bend your knees." The ankle bonds were slack enough to allow Mac to bend his knees slightly.

Kneeling at his lover's side, leaned over and parted Mac's ass cheeks with one hand and slipped the dark object - a *butt* plug, I suddenly realized - into his asshole.

"That wasn't so bad, now was it, Duncan?" Methos asked rhetorically. Mac's ragged breathing was answer enough.

Methos shifted, flowed across Mac's body, straddling his chest. "And now, regarding the matter of your reward..." Facing the foot of the bed, he smiled devilishly, grasping Mac's oil-slicked cock in his hand.

I was thoroughly confused. How the hell was he going to give Mac a blow job with all that oil?

As if he'd heard my thoughts, he chuckled and glanced briefly into the darkness. Then, he slowly slipped back Mac's foreskin, nibbling along the edges. Firmly, he ran his closed fist down the shaft and circled the exposed, crown with a long, mobile tongue, flicked it into the dripping slit. Beneath him, Mac bucked suddenly, nearly unseating Methos, releasing an appreciative moan.

His lover chuckled wickedly. "So sensitive!" And then, as his hands slicked up and down the shaft, as they stroked and plucked mercilessly at Mac's naked, shorn balls, Methos delicately worried the very tip of Mac's cock with lips, teeth and tongue. For MacLeod, after spending so much time aroused, the stimulation was doubtlessly unbearable. Thrashing uncontrollably, moments later, he came with a howl.

Methos wiped the come from his face with the back of his hand and laughed wryly. "Perhaps I *should* have gagged you, Duncan."

"Oh *shit*, Methos!" Mac gasped.

"Easy, MacLeod." Methos soothed. "And listen. He's still snoring, still asleep. See? No harm done."

No harm? As long as they thought I was asleep! If either had the slightest inkling that I was awake...Well, I suppose evisceration by sword stroke isn't the *worst* of ways to die...

Shifting down the bed to kneel between Mac's spread legs, Methos carefully released his lover's ankles, massaging the tense thighs gently. Turning to face the head of the bed, pushing Mac's legs towards his chest. "Ready, Duncan?" he asked quietly.

The response was nearly a whisper. "Yes, Methos. I'm ready." MacLeod now lay bonelessly, clearly drifting in a post-coital haze.

"Deep breath now," he directed, grasping the end of the plug and withdrawing it swiftly. Mac gasped aloud, trembled and then lay still.

Methos set the plug aside and leaned down for a brief kiss.

"You know Duncan," he said softly but clearly. "When I took his head tonight, when I stood, flayed by the lightening of his Quickening, I thought of you."

"You did?" Mac asked, sounding drowsy and content.

"I did." Methos nodded, placing his hands beneath his lover's knees and resting the powerful legs on his shoulders. "I remembered how much you love being fucked after I've taken a head. How much you love being fucked by Death."

"Oh God, Methos!" Mac wailed plaintively, now struggling in his remaining bonds.

"And look!" Methos crowed with pleasure. "You're hard again, already!"

Mac continued to struggle, pleading with Methos to "Fuck me *now*!"

"Oh, and yes," Methos paused dramatically, "I also vividly recalled your jealousy that Kronos and Byron had this *first*!"

Kronos had had *this*?! I hastily revised my former, obviously ill-conceived notions of their relationship. Who the hell could have guessed?

Without warning, the muscles of his back and thighs tensed and Methos sheathed himself fully in Mac's ass with a exultant shout.

For a long while, there were no intelligible words spoken in any language *I* knew, no other sounds except the wet, meaty slap as Methos rammed his lover repeatedly, Mac's gasping, breathy pleas as Methos apparently pulled on the thin chain connecting the nipple rings, the frantic jangle of the chains against the headboard, and finally, Methos' lush groan of completion as his spilled himself into his lover.

I blinked dry, wide eyes and swallowed hard, dick throbbing beneath me. I'd only meant to watch, just get an idea of what they were like in bed. Expand my horizons. Learn a bit. And yes, I'll be honest, to indulge in a bit of harmless gawking. I surely didn't mean to walk in on a bondage scene!

The moon had shifted towards the horizon and the loft was darker, silent except for the small, pleased sounds Mac made as Methos gently cleaned him with a towel. Nearly motionless under his lover's ministrations, he sighed happily as Methos carefully released his hands, removed the cuffs from his ankles and spooned up behind him, covered them both with the satin bed-clothes.

"Rest, Duncan," Methos said softly. And then, for a long time, lying still in the darkness, I heard the quiet murmur of Methos voice and other soft sounds as he stroked his fingers through Mac's hair and laid gentle kisses along his neck and shoulders.

I carefully controlled my breathing, adding in a realistic snore or snort at reasonable intervals. Alternating between painful arousal and fierce embarrassment, I thanked every god I'd ever heard of that MacLeod and Methos still thought I was asleep.

Rolling slowly to my back, I gradually relaxed and my raging hard-on eased. Somehow, I'd have to find the chutzpah to look these guys in the face again, having seen things about them that I honestly should *never* have seen. By God, there really *is* such thing as too much information for a Watcher!

After what felt like hours of ruminating, I'd just about managed to convince myself that I could pull it off, hang out with them, continue to act nonchalant. And as I teetered on the edge of sleep, Methos' voice startled me, a resonant and wry vocal caress in the darkness.

"Good night, Joseph. Hope you enjoyed the show."

I froze, my heart pounded furiously and my stomach lurched. He *knew*!

Holy fucking shit!

Methos chuckled wickedly and then was silent.

Hope you enjoyed the show! My brain sputtered as I tried to make sense of his words. Staring at the ceiling, I gasped suddenly.

Jesus H. Christ!

Perhaps I'd forgive him his outrageous bar tab after all.

_Finis._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Rosa for the beta.


End file.
